


Elementary 03: Our Early Cases (1874-1876)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary: The Complete Cases of Castiel Novak (and Dean Winchester) [3]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Anal Fingering, Destiel - Freeform, Epistolary, F/M, Financial Issues, Gay Sex, London, M/M, Murder, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Scenting, Theft, Waistcoats, sex in a stable
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-29
Updated: 2015-06-10
Packaged: 2018-04-01 19:41:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4032247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>Case 1. PILOT (formerly 'The Adventure Of The Gloria Scott')</b><br/>Case 2. NO EXIT (The Tarleton Hall Affair)<br/>Case 3. WISHFUL THINKING (The Case Of Doctor Moore Agar)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction

Our first three cases together. Well, sort of together.

I first chanced to meet the youngest son of Sir Charles Novak at Oxford where, the Fates be praised, he was my old friend Stamford's room-mate. Hitherto I had always thought myself very much the typical alpha; in other words, I had far too high an opinion of myself, and expected the world to bow down to my demands. Yet within seconds of meeting the man who was to change my life, I was reduced to a quivering wreck, pleading for sex like some sex-starved omega. He later admitted to me just how much an effort it had been not to claim me one way or another, for which I suppose I should have been grateful.

Why? Because the year that followed, almost twelve Cas-less months, was torture. I lost all interest in the opposite sexes and statuses, and just yearned to be as one with the blue-eyed genius. It was a bittersweet moment when we met for our second case, for I knew my time with him was again to be far too short, although this time I had the potential promise of our moving in together. That helped to sustain me over the year that followed, and more than once I blessed Sir Rowland Hill for the wonder that was the modern postal service, enabling us to keep in contact despite the many miles between us. Ironically it was through that same service that Cas solved our third case, despite his being several hundred miles away at the time. 

It was after the Wishful Thinking Affair (I hold that for once the French have it right, and there are some house names that should be totally forbidden!) that we moved into our first lodgings in bustling Montague Street, from where.... but that was another chapter of our lives.


	2. Case 1: Pilot (1874)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Formerly 'The Adventure of the “Gloria Scott"'.

I

One of the papers I wrote from my home in Belford concerned the various aspects of alpha, beta and omega relations, and the different sub-types there are within the male human (incidentally twenty-four are recognized, which is lucky as that is coincidentally the number of letters in the modern Greek alphabet). A follow-up paper concerned the science of scenting, and whether it was possible to control an alpha's reaction therein. I did not know at the time that I was tempting Fate by stating categorically that it was, and mankind just needed to find the right chemical formula.

That theory, along with my dignity, was about to be blown clean out of the water!

+~+~+

For all that this was supposed to be the Age of Railways, travelling from one end of the country to another was still a major undertaking. I had to take a train that left Belford before sun-up, and it seemed to take an age to rumble its way as far as Newcastle, still (albeit just) in my home county. Then it was an arduous ten-hour ride all the way to London, and I thanked my lucky stars that I had accepted Sir Charles' insistence on providing me with a first-class ticket at his expense. I had a fairly comfortable compartment to myself all the way to King's Cross, where I would spend the night in a small hotel not far from the station. My worldly goods came with me, but I had arranged for them to go to the room I had acquired near St. Bartholomew's, and I would live out of just two bags for the intervening three weeks.

The following morning I took a cab to Paddington, and a Great Western Railway train which would take me all the way to the city of dreaming spires. It was an unusually warm late summer's day, and I was relieved to alight and find Stamford waiting for me on the platform. He had not changed much in his two years of education, still being overly tall and windblown (he reminded me a little of Sammy, which in turn recalled to mind the unpleasant fact that my little brother was now the best part of four hundred miles away). I shook off the feeling of dolour as best I could. 

We took a cab to my friend's small but well-kept quarters at the college. Or at least partially well-kept; one side of the room was fairly tidy, but the other side looked as if a tornado had passed through it, and then passed back again. He saw my surprise, and laughed.  
   
“I have my own bedroom, but share this room with Novak”, he explained. “He is… a little eccentric, and he uses it a lot as he does not sleep much, but he is good at heart. He is out now, most probably at the library.”

“He is a tolerable room-mate, then?” I asked. Stamford had mentioned in a second letter that his room-mate tended to be a little disorganized, but this was some way beyond that. My friend smiled.

“He is actually the only man who had never objected to me playing the pipes”, he smiled, gesturing towards the set of Northumbrian bagpipes on the chair (I thought wryly that their presence might explain why the suite was so isolated from the rest of the rooms). “But then again, he does play the violin at times.”  
   
“Then those times apart, I am really looking forward to some peace and quiet during my time here”, I said, collapsing into a fireside chair. “The funeral and sorting out the estate were some way beyond trying, considering we had so little. Thank heavens I had Cas' father behind me; he sent his own lawyer up to spend a week sorting everything out.”  
   
“You are welcome here”, my friend said, sitting down opposite me. “I am fairly sure you will have a quiet time here. Unless, of course, our mystery thief strikes again.”  
   
I looked at him in surprise?  
   
“Thief?” I asked.  
   
“Yes”, he said. “It has all been very strange. But you don't want to hear about....”  
   
“Tell me about it”, I urged, as he folded his long limbs into a chair.  
   
“I thought you wanted peace and quiet?” he said, raising an eyebrow at me.  
   
I pouted at him, and he laughed.  
   
“All right”, he said, standing up. “I'll make us both a coffee – it's good that Novak doesn't mind me using his things provided I tell him when we're running low - believe me, you don't want to see him when he's minus his morning beans! – then I'll tell you all about it.”  
   
+~+~+  
   
“Queens was the first incident, about three weeks ago”, my friend said, sipping his coffee. “Someone broke into their library and stole a copy of a book about Greek naval warfare. Not a very valuable one, which was odd; there were much more expensive books there for the taking. But the thief only took the one, and didn’t even try to hide the fact.”  
   
“Go on”, I urged.  
   
“A week later, Corpus Christi got hit. Someone stole a small painting of an old-time Elizabethan warship from the museum storeroom. A bit more valuable, but more expensive things nearby were left untouched, and again, no effort was made to hide which painting was taken. If the thieves hadn't have left the cupboard door wide open, it might not have been spotted for ages.”  
   
“So there is a naval connection?” I asked.  
   
“That’s what the college authorities thought”, Stamford said, nodding, “and last week it looked like it was confirmed when they struck at Lincoln. Bolder, this time. A valuable silver tureen was taken from the main hall. It was decorated with a naval battle scene from the Punic Wars. Worth a pretty penny, I should say!”  
   
“Bizarre!” I exclaimed. “Someone has a vendetta against the navy?”  
   
“Novak is sure he can work out who is doing it….” Stamford began, but stopped as there was a knock at the door, and a piece of paper was pushed under it. He went across to pick it up, and sighed in annoyance.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Professor Turnberry wants to see me about my course options”, he groused. “It's not even term time yet, but a visiting professor who was going to teach one of my subjects has pulled out, and he needs me to choose something else quickly.”

“You go”, I said. “I shall unpack, and freshen up whilst you are out.”

He nodded, and left.

+~+~+

I was finishing washing my face in the bathroom when I heard the sound of the door creaking outside. I was surprised that Stamford was back so soon, and dried my face before venturing out. But it was not my friend in the room. This man was slightly shorter than myself, though still above average height, had impossibly untidy hair and the bluest eyes I had ever seen.

“You must be Castiel Novak, Sir Charles' son”, I smiled. “I'm Dean.....”

II

I got no further, for that was the moment when his scent hit me like an express train. Old books, fresh winter air and some sort of herbal aroma, but whatever it was, it took my breath away. He looked at me in surprise.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

I let out a sound which, in all probability, was akin to the mating call of a distressed wild boar. Then I lurched forward with more speed than grace, and buried my head into the man's neck, scenting his utterly divine aroma.

Sigma!

I was torn, wanting to continue the blessed inhaling of his scent, but needing.....

I pulled back, and realized for the first time that he was in not much better a state than I was. His impossibly blue eyes were dark with passion, and despite the sheer bizarreness of the situation, I just knew.

“Mate me!” I growled.

He growled back, and grabbed me so hard by the shoulders he must have left a hand-print in my skin. Being walked by another human being across the room whilst trying to stay as close to them as possible proved unsurprisingly difficult, and the couch nearly proved my undoing, especially as I as distracted by my now almost painful erection. The handle of his door proved annoyingly resistant to my efforts to operate it, but I eventually forced our way through, only for him to prise himself away from me. I pouted at that, but he was only doing it so he could get undressed, which he did remarkably quickly.

“If you don't get a move on”, he all but snarled, “I'll be forced to tear those clothes off of you!”

I nodded frantically, and threw my shirt and vest across the room a split second before he was on me, pushing me back onto the bed. I was past thinking rationally; I rolled over onto my front and raised my backside into the air, presenting myself like a two-shilling whore. I needed him inside me like yesterday, and nothing else mattered.

I groaned when I felt him fingering me open, whining at the delay. He hissed his disapproval.

“I am not going to take you raw”, he said firmly, opening me up and.....

I realized a fraction of a second too late that his left hand was squeezing the base of my cock, preventing me from coming, whilst his right was jabbing at my prostate like it had personally offended him. I cried, begging for relief, and finally he withdrew his hand and replaced it with something infinitely better. My moans immediately became ones of happiness, and he continued to punish my prostate but this time let go his grip on my cock, letting me come like I had never come before. I let out another other-wordly noise before collapsing onto the bed.

“Wow!” I managed eventually. He turned me over to face him, and smiled a gummy smile.

“I've never done that before.”

His tone was gravelled, as if he had been gargling with whisky. I looked at him in surprise, and that was the precise moment my consciousness finally got through to me. Oh Hell!

“You're an alpha!” I gasped. “Or at least an alpha-sigma. Oh my God, I just had sex with an alpha! And the youngest son of the man who.....”

My flow of words was stopped by Cas placing a hand over my mouth, and looking at me sternly.

“It is not as if I was unwilling”, he said firmly. “And I was definitely willing. I sense from your scent that you're a sigma too; I thought my first time would be with an omega, but there you go.”

Yes, Fate just had to kick me when I was down.

“Your first time?” I said weakly. He looked at me coyly.

“Not, I hope, our last”, he growled.

Just to prove that things could get worse, that was the moment I heard Stamford's voice calling my name from the main room. Reckoning that I was a lost cause, I decided to brave things out.

“I hope so too!” I grinned, running my hand down his surprisingly muscled chest before getting up and reaching for my clothes.

+~+~+

Stamford shook his head at us both when he saw us.

“Honestly, Dean!” he groused. “It was anything with a pulse back in Northumberland, but I thought you'd at least show some restraint here!”

“I rather like Winchester without restraints”, Cas said with an easy smile. “Though we could use restraints if he liked.....”

Stamford gave him a death-glare, whilst I tried to retrieve what was left of my mind from the gutter.

“I had been telling Dean about our spate of thefts of late”, he said, clearly eager to change the subject. “And what happened to your eye, Novak?”

I had not even noticed the bruising around his left eye. Some doctor I was!

“Lord Rushcliffe happened”, he said dryly. “Fortunately he and his two cronies came off much worse.”

Stamford whistled through his teeth.

“You don't want to be upsetting the Sanspareil Club, Novak”, he said warningly. 

“What's the Sanspareil Club?” I asked wonderingly. 

“It is a club for those with more money than sense”, Cas said crisply. “I was investigating as to whether or not they were behind the recent outbreak of crime in the colleges, and Lord Rushcliffe took exception to my questions.”

“He was hardly going to admit to it”, Stamford pointed out. “You think he was behind all three thefts?”

“Four”, Cas corrected.

“Four?” Stamford echoed.

Cas looked at him grimly.

“The Gloria Scott”, he said meaningfully.

I knew not what he meant by those three words, but my Northumbrian friend looked as if he had been pole-axed.

“No!” he gasped.

I looked between the two of them, annoyed at being out of the loop.

“What is going on?” I demanded.

Cas turned back to me.

“That”, he said crisply, “is precisely what I am endeavouring to find out, Mr. Winchester.”

III

“Bargate is one of the newest colleges”, Stamford explained to me some time later, having steadied his nerves with a large brandy. “It was founded as a very small institution fifty years ago, and only reached its present size thanks to the generosity of one Mr. Solomon Clarke, who made his fortune in shipping. He started out as a maritime pilot – the men who guide ships into and out of harbour – and still did the job occasionally even when he owned his own fleet of ships. He had a large family, towards whom he grew increasingly distrustful as he grew older. He died ten years ago, and his will left everything he possessed to be divided between the college, which got two-thirds of the estate, and his three daughters, who shared one-third equally. They would have contested it, I am sure, but a proviso in the will meant all of them would lose their entitlement if any of them failed in such a challenge, and they were clearly advised not to risk it, either for reason of costs or a limited chance of success.”

“I see”, I said, as Cas wandered back into the room and sat down at the table. I twitched – I was not going to jump the man in front of Stamford, no matter what the contents of my trousers were saying. “So who is this “Gloria Scott”? One of the daughters?

“No”, Stamford said. “One of the terms of the bequest was that he also left the college a scale model of the first ship he owned, a brigantine of that name. He had it made especially, and of course it has a small model of himself in the bridge. The terms of the will were unusual; the college only got the interest from the capital sum for twelve years, after which they got the remaining money as a lump sum. But there was a proviso; they had to keep the model safe, and display it in the Main Hall. If it was lost or stolen, then the moneys went to his three daughters. And since Eustace Rushcliffe's brother Viscount Cropwell married the eldest of those daughters last year, the former has what you might call an interest in making sure that such a theft happened.”

“Except it has not happened.”

We both turned to look at Cas, who was sat there with a ridiculous curved pipe (unlit) in his mouth. He stared back at us.

“Parkinson, the watchman, nearly caught the thief crossing the quadrangle”, he explained. “The man dropped the model and fled. It has been damaged, but it is repairable.”

“So the theft failed?” I asked.

“Possibly”, Cas mused. “I am still investigating the case.”

“I suppose they took the model to Wentworth?” Stamford said.

“Who is Wentworth?” I queried.

“The go-to guy for cleaning and repairing such stuff”, Stamford explained. “He did a great job putting that frightful Renaissance thing to rights, even if it was dog-ugly to begin with.”

I smiled at that. Stamford had never had any appreciation of art (another twitch in my trousers reminded me that certain parts of my anatomy appreciated art a little too much).

“He has to put himself to rights, first”, Cas said, sending me a knowing smirk. “Thomas Wentworth was struck down in the food poisoning incident at dinner the night before last, along with twenty other people. I talked to his brother immediately after the theft, and he will not be able to work on the model for another week at least.”

“Coincidence?” I ventured.

“If it was not, then it has not helped the thieves”, Cas said. “The college has had a new safe installed in the Main Hall today, and the model has been locked away there. It is now far less accessible than it was before.”

“A strange case all round”, I said.

“Indeed”, Cas agreed. “I am sure we have not heard the last of this matter.”

His words were to prove strangely prophetic.

+~+~+

Bargate was only a small college, but fortunately it did have a couple of rooms put aside. Of course an omega attending college was a rare thing in those days, but the Victorians were a lot more progressive than some people today give them credit for, hence the two rooms for any omegas (I later learned Bargate had only one) in heat. Equally fortunately, the college was understanding about the minor statuses, which meant that a sigma who had discovered his sigma mate could also use them, as they would clearly have zero interest in any omegas therein.

Cas, true enough, had no interest in any omegas therein. His main interest in the week that followed was in reducing me to a quivering wreck at every opportunity, so that after just one day in the city, I could barely move. Cas wanted sex like most people wanted oxygen – continuously – and even someone with my reputation could barely keep up (even that part could barely keep up, too!)!

Of course, sex was sex. But what I found hardest of all (apart from that, and get your mind out of the gutter, thank you!) was the tender way he held me afterwards as if I was something truly precious. I often wished that I had arranged to stay there for longer, or that what whatever on earth we had might somehow continue in some magical way. But perhaps I should just be grateful for what I had.

It is probably well at this point that I mention the position of the Church at this time as regards same-status relationships, particularly as it was more powerful then than today. The official line was that all such relationships were forbidden by the Good Book, although such was the standing of alphas in society (things were also a lot less equal in those days) that alpha-alpha relationships were generally ignored provided those involved were discreet. Many people strongly disapproved, as we would in time find out.

+~+~+

A week after my arrival, I was sat in one of the fireside chairs when Cas returned from wherever he had been.

“Where is Stamford?” he asked as he crossed to his room.

“At a meeting with one of his professors again”, I said. “Finalizing his options, or some such thing.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him nod and enter his room. I returned to my book, trying to keep my mind on parts of the human lungs rather than my friend's room-mate's perfect body.

About five minutes later I heard him come out but did not look up, until I realized that he was standing right in front of me. When, I did, I was surprised to see he was wearing the blue waistcoat I had said I liked on him. 

Thought not half as surprised to see he was wearing precisely nothing else! I let out a mangled moan.

“I just realized”, he growled, “that I have spent the last week fucking you, and you have never returned the favour. I think it is time we remedied that particular matter.”

I was beyond words; his scent was powerful enough, but when he swiftly undid my flies and pulled out my already hardening cock, I let out an omega-worthy piteous moan. He grinned evilly, and proceeded to work me to full hardness in under a minute. Then he easily hoisted himself up onto the chair and positioned himself right above me before gently lowering himself down. 

I somehow had the nous for one brief moment of clarity.

“You prepared yourself!” I accused. Even though sigmas, like omegas, were capable of generating slick, it was rarely enough to allow for immediate coupling.

“I had hopes”, he admitted with a shrug of his wonderful shoulders. “Any chance of you setting about fulfilling them?”

A little annoyed at his presumption, I thrust upwards, earning myself a guttural snarl and a fierce push back. In seconds, it became a contest as to who could make the other come first, and as so often with Cas, I lost, erupting inside him with another moan. I would have liked to jerk him off, but my arms, like most of my body, had seemingly ceased to function, although at least I had the glorious sight of my lover jerking himself off.....

“Oh my God!”

Stamford! Damnation, the man was the ultimate cock-block! Cas, of course, totally ignored my friend, and within seconds was coming all over my shirt with a happy growl, interrupted only by the slamming of the door that apparently heralded his room-mate's swift departure.

“You, sir, are shameless!” I scolded the man whom I was very firmly inside.

He looked at me through eyes that seemed an ever darker shade of blue than normal.

“Maybe one day you will find out just how much!” he teased, before easing himself off of me with a pop. I looked down at my ruined shirt, and hoped I would be able to get the stains out.

IV

Stamford returned half an hour later, glaring at me as he walked across the room. Fortunately he was more than a little distracted by his own news.

“They've struck again!” he declared.

I looked up, interested.

“The naval thief?” I asked.

“Yes!” he said. “And this time they struck it rich. Six gold bars, recovered from a sunken Spanish galleon in Cornwall, were on display at Exeter, and got taken! Someone broke into the library in the small hours of the morning, and whilst the watchman was chasing them off, the real thieves struck at the Main Hall!”

“Five things now”, I mused. “I wonder if the great Mr. Novak will be able to solve this case after all.”

“I already have.”

I leapt out of my chair in shock at the gravelled growl, to find the scruffy-haired man standing right behind me.

“Good heavens!” I barked. “Wear a bell, man!”

He tilted his head to one side as he looked at me. It was most definitely not anything starting with the third letter of the alphabet and rhyming with shoot. And it was most unfair of him to wear nothing beneath that dressing-gown. I had a vivid imagination (among other things) to keep in check!

(As I rewrite this, Cas says that at this point in time I uttered something that was almost certainly a whimper, although I do not recall any such event. But he was very persuasive about me putting it in the story).

“How can you know who it was?” I demanded. 

“It is quite simple”, he said dryly. “Once one has eliminated the impossible, then what remains, however improbable, must be the answer.”

“Anyone could do that!” I snapped. He looked at me, and I could see his barely concealed disbelief.

“Really?” he said, a slight smile creasing the corners of his eyes. “Well, I wish to re-interview those parties involved tomorrow before presenting my findings to the College Board. You are welcome to accompany me, Mr. Winchester, and to see if you reach the same conclusions that I have.”

I glared at him.

“It's a date!” I said hotly, ignoring my friend's barely suppressed snigger. He was a beta; what did he know?

I was so annoyed with Cas that I deliberately undressed slowly that evening! Hmph!

+~+~+

Our first interview the following day (I needed a bath to cope with the scent, as someone now seemed to be marking me as his own) was with Parkinson, the Bargate watchman. He was a grizzled old war veteran in his fifties. I had to admit that I was surprised that he opened up to Cas so much. He showed us where the thief had got in, and answered all of my companion's questions quite readily. I tried to avoid standing too close to the younger man, but that scent kept drawing me in, much to my annoyance.

“You cannot possibly think he was involved”, I said as we left. “The man had a medal for serving in the Crimea!”

“A medal does not pay the bills”, Cas said sonorously. “You noticed, of course, that he has a second job to help clear his debts?”

I stared at him in confusion.

“How do you know that?” I demanded. “And what debts?”

“He works on the site where they are building the new block for Queens”, Cas explained. “The building is being constructed of Chilmark stone, the dust from which is quite distinctive. And there is a tally marker partly hidden under some papers on his desk, which means he must owe someone a considerable amount. Money, or the lack thereof, often provides an excellent motive for crime.”

I looked dubiously at him.

“Queens was where the first theft happened, wasn't it?” I recalled.

Cas smiled knowingly.

“Indeed!” he said. “Let us see the estimable Lord Rushcliffe.”

+~+~+

I had always looked up to the English nobility, but even I found myself taking an immediate dislike to the Earl of Hallamshire's second son. He was in his late thirties, blond and ruddy-faced, and made no secret of his displeasure at our visit. 

“Novak again!” he sneered. “And you've brought a new lap-dog!”

“I had one final question for you”, Cas said politely. “Of course, if you would rather I go straight to the Board....”

He stopped, allowing the threat to hang in the air. The other man paled.

“What is it?” he snapped.

“The runner, or the cook?”

I stared at Cas in confusion, though I could not miss how the nobleman went even paler at his question.

“The runner”, he muttered.

“Thank you”, Cas smiled. “That was all I wanted to know.”

“Get out!”

Cas made what was obviously an insincere bow, and led the way out. I scuttled after him.

“What was all that about?” I asked, bewildered.

“The food poisoning of an entire table is apposite to the case”, the man said, striding quickly along. Then he stopped, so suddenly I nearly ran into him. Damnation, I had gotten too close again! “Any deductions so far, Constable Winchester?”

I frowned at the appellation, and forced myself to take a step back. It took some effort, and I definitely did not let out any sort of noise of sadness at the increased distance between us.

“I wonder why a lord's son, and for that matter someone of his age, should be at college in the first place”, I said. “He does not strike me as the studious type.”

He looked at me as if I was a performing dog that had just executed a difficult trick.

“A good observation, and pertinent to the case”, he said. “Follow that thought through and see where it leads you. Come. We have two more calls to make.”

+~+~+

“Where next?” I asked as we reached the bottom of the stairs in the nobleman's house.

Cas looked at me thoughtfully, then opened a small door that apparently led into a store-cupboard. I was about to ask what was in there when he dragged me inside and pulled the door shut behind us. It was very dark.

V

I was on the point of asking again before I found out why – Cas had moved swiftly behind me and was in the process of pulling down my trousers! Before I could object he had my underpants down as well, and was inserting first one and then two fingers into my entrance, whilst rubbing my aching cock to hardness with his other hand. I could not suppress a moan.

“Be silent!” he hissed. “Unless you want them to catch us!”

I tried, but it was damnably hard (in both senses!). I could feel the pressure building in my balls, and although my conception of time – along with most of my other senses – was barely functional, it can have been barely two minutes before I was erupting, my spend flying all over the wall just a foot ahead of me as Cas had apparently decided that my cock could function as a garden hose. I bit my lip, and managed to mostly suppress a sigh of happiness.

Cas listened at the door before opening it and stepping out, looking as calm and unruffled as ever. I pulled together my clothes – there was no dignity left, I was sure of that – and hastily followed him.

I wondered if any of our other stops would have convenient store-cupboards....

+~+~+

I felt completely out of place in the lawyer's office, a feeling not helped by the fact that Cas once more seemed to fit in perfectly. I guessed that his name had opened up this particular door to him, though I could not help marvel again at how the man could turn on the charm. Mr. Nicholas Broadribb (an inapt name as he was positively cadaverous) was sat opposite us, ferreting through a number of legal papers.

“You are aware”, he said pompously”, that I am of course unable to divulge precise details of the late Mr. Solomon Clarke's estate? Even if the general terms are common knowledge.”

Cas nodded his assent.

“That is not the reason for my call”, he said. “I know you were the person who drew up the last will and testament of Mr. Clarke. What I wanted to ascertain was your opinion about a certain aspect of it.”

He handed over a piece of paper to the lawyer, who unfolded it and read it. Then he almost jumped out of his comfortable chair.

“How did you know?” he demanded, staring at Cas as if the man were some kind of wizard.

Cas smiled.

“I did not”, he said. “I deduced. From your reaction, it appears I deduced correctly. Thank you for agreeing to see us, sir. We will take up no more of your valuable time.”

He ushered me out. Once outside, I turned to glare at him.

“So the theft was to deprive the college of the bequest, after all?” I asked.

“The theft was aimed at achieving but one thing, and it succeeded in that aim”, Cas said. He looked at his watch. “We must hurry. Our last call goes to dinner in thirty-five minutes.”

I did not bother to ask him how he knew that.

+~+~+

The offices of Thomas Wentworth, Esquire. A small, dark-haired man bade us enter, and introduced himself as Joseph Wentworth, brother to the invalid.

“Do you have any more questions for me, Mr. Novak?” he asked politely.

“One”, Cas said. “Did they bring the model over earlier this evening?”

“Yes, sir”, he said firmly. “My brother is well enough now to start work on it first thing tomorrow.”

“Good”, Cas said. “Tonight I want you to place it in plain sight in the main room.”

Joseph Wentworth went pale.

“Sir, you don't think....”

“I don't think, Mr. Wentworth, I know”, Cas said firmly. “I appreciate that your brother is not fully recovered, but it is imperative that the two of you spend the night elsewhere. I believe you have a third brother, Josiah, who lives in the city. You must stay with him and not return until after sun-up tomorrow.”

“Very good, sir.”

“And I shall see you at four o'clock tomorrow afternoon”, Cas said firmly. “Be sure that you are ready.”

“I will, sir.”

Cas hustled me out of the room before I could say anything.

“What on earth is going on?” I asked.

“There is going to be a lot of fuss tomorrow”, he said brusquely. I thought that he looked almost sad for some strange reason. “I shall speak with the Board at around three o'clock. I would like to meet you as well, say around five. Would that be acceptable?”

“Oh”, I said. “Yes. Acceptable. Yes.”

“Good”, he smiled.

“You know who did it?” I asked.

“Of course”, he said. “That is the easy part. Ensuring justice for those involved, however..... that will be more difficult.”

He strode away before I could respond, leaving an aroma of old books and fresh winter air behind him. I did not stand there breathing it in.

Not for long, anyway.

+~+~+

Stamford took me around the Oxford shops the following day, and as he had an appointment in town that same evening, I returned to the college alone, arriving at Cas' room only a few minutes before five. Opening the door, I was shocked to see two packed cases there. For a moment I thought this might be an unsubtle way of my being asked to leave – I had long moved all my things in with him - before realizing the cases were not mine. As I stared, Cas came through from his room, heaving another case.

“You are leaving?” I gasped.

“I must”, he said, his face dark. “The Board have left me with no option.”

“But why?” I asked, shocked. “You are halfway towards your degree. You cannot give up now!”

“I have no choice”, the man said acidly. “This morning, the four missing naval items were all found in Mr. Thomas Wentworth's quarters. He and his brother have been instructed to leave the college by nightfall, or face prosecution.”

“Then they were guilty!” I exclaimed.

VI

Cas looked at me almost pityingly, before checking his pocket-watch. 

“I have ten minutes before my cab is due”, he said resignedly. “I suppose I can use it to explain the case to you.”

I sat down eagerly.

“I am all ears!” I said.

He looked confused at the expression, but sat down opposite me.

“The whole case revolves around the will of the late Mr. Solomon Clarke”, he began. “Once I knew that Lord Rushcliffe's brother was married to Mr. Clarke's eldest daughter, I suspected my fellow student's involvement. He was the person behind the thefts, through his agents, naturally.”

“But how do you know that?” I demanded.

“Mr. Broadribb confirmed my suspicion that, upon disposal, the estate of the late Mr. Clarke was considerably smaller than had been anticipated”, Cas explained. “At the time, this was considered due to what I now believe to be a false paper trail of poor investments. It is my belief that the man disliked his family sufficiently to convert the better part of his estate into a form which could elude their grasps. Mr. Broadribb confirmed for me that, over the months before his death, he made several trips to London. It is my belief that he used those trips to buy diamonds.”

“Why diamonds?” I asked.

“He had to get a lot of money out of the house in a small space”, Cas said. “A small space as in the cargo hold of the model of an old sailing ship....”

“The “Gloria Scott!” I exclaimed.

He smiled at my boyish enthusiasm. 

“Indeed”, he said. “I am only conjecturing, but I believe he must have sent a communication to the dean of the college alerting him to the true value of his strange bequest. However, it so chanced that the dean fell ill with food poisoning on the same day Mr. Clarke died, and himself passed on two days later - so the 'gift' went undetected.”

“And all that time the diamonds were all but on open display!” I exclaimed. “Anyone could have taken them!”

Yes”, Cas said. “I do not know how, but in some way the eldest daughter, now Mrs. Wallis, must have recently become aware of the subterfuge. Most probably a former servant talked. Her brother-in-law applied here – hardly a first choice for such a noble family, let alone someone so clearly unsuitable to college life – presumably planning to stay for as long as it would take to retrieve the diamonds. It was he who engineered the spate of thefts of which the model was just one.”

“Where would one hide a leaf but in a forest”, I muttered.

“Exactly”, he said. 

“But how did you know all this?” I demanded.

“Deduction, mostly”, he said. “After all, there were several clues.”

“Such as?” I prompted.

“Well, the fact that an agile young thief, whom you may remember we were told could vault an eight-foot wall, dropped the model and fled when confronted by an aged watchman”, he said. “That was the plan all along; the thief was instructed to obtain the model, damage it somewhat, get himself seen by the security guard, drop it and flee. Lord Rushcliffe knew the model would be sent to the Wentworths to be repaired, and he prevented Wentworth from starting work straight away by putting one of his agents in as a runner. They poisoned the evening meal on the night of the theft for the whole table whilst they were carrying it up from the kitchen.”

“But why did he do that?”

“He wanted to engineer a fifth theft, to draw attention away from the fourth one.”

“So that was why you told Wentworth to put the model on open display?”

“And why I made sure he and his brother were elsewhere when the inevitable break-in happened. I did not want to risk them getting hurt.

I stared at him thoughtfully.

“The Board did not believe you?” I asked eventually.

“They know Lord Rushcliffe is guilty, but he is the son of a leading member of the House of Lords. The Wentworths, on the other hand, are expendable.”

“And the diamonds?” I asked. 

Cas looked at me as if I was being uncommonly slow, before apparently reaching a decision.

“You are a good man, Dean”, he said slowly, “so I am going to entrust you with a secret. On the model, removing the roof of the bridge allows one to access the figure of the Pilot, Mr. Clarke, which when pulled back releases the secret compartment lock. And I would point out that there are such things as imitation diamonds.”

I looked at him in astonishment for nearly a whole minute before it clicked.

“You swapped them before they left the ship on display!” I gasped. “So you have the real gems?”

“No.”

I looked at him in puzzlement.

“But then, where.....”

“I was going to restore the diamonds to the college”, Cas said, “but after the way they chose to mistreat the Wentworths, I had a change of mind. I came here from their rooms, and I left them a small souvenir of the college that has treated them so appallingly. Their new lives in the United States will be that much more comfortable now.”

I was speechless.

“Justice”, Cas said softly. “I do try to follow the law, but first I follow what is right.” His head titled to one side, and he nodded. “That is my cab. I do hope I shall see you again some day.”

I recovered enough to shake his hand and mutter a 'Godspeed', promising to inform Stamford of the reasons for his departure. He looked at me for a moment as he stood on the doorway, then pulled me into a hug, kissing me fiercely. I could have stayed there in his arms forever, but I knew he had to leave, and reluctantly I eased away from him. He looked at me one last time, then left to get into his cab. Moments later he was driving away, and I wondered if I would ever see him again.

My summer loving, it seemed, was over.

+~+~+

From Oxford to its deadly rival Cambridge. Barely a twelve-month later I once more found myself staring into those impossibly blue eyes. Across two dead bodies.....


	3. Case 2: No Exit (1875)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously unpublished, the case that happened at Tarleton Hall.

I

Cas' unexpected departure from Oxford did, I must remark, upset me somewhat. 

Oh who was I kidding? Eve though I had known him (in both senses!) for barely a week, losing him in that way made me feel like part of life had been savagely cut away. That the Bargate College authorities would willfully ignore the actual facts of the case just to protect someone of the 'calibre' of Lord Rushcliffe was, in all honesty, quite depressing, if unsurprising. Fortunately Stamford informed me within days that Sir Charles had wholeheartedly backed his son's decision to quit. Indeed, I have strong suspicions – though of course they can never be proven – that the nobleman may have been instrumental in that college's subsequent financial problems, and its eventual (and deserved) closure. 

Stamford wrote to me shortly after my arrival back in London, informing me that his former room-mate had, after some efforts on his father's behalf, obtained a place on a similar course to the one he had been on at a college in Cambridge, namely Tarleton. I had never heard of that particular establishment, assuming (correctly, it turned out) that it was one of the newer ones. I had no idea how that name, along with the blue-eyed genius, would come barrelling back into my life the following year.

What did surprise me, at the time, was that Cas started writing to me regularly. Our encounters thus far had been purely about sex, which was important (vital) to any alpha, but he seemed to wish for a genuine friendship, and on thinking it over, I decided that I wished for that too. I would have been lying had I said that I did not entertain hopes that I might meet him again one day. 

Vertically or horizontally. I was not fussy.

+~+~+

I settled well into life at St. Bartholomew's, although a small incident in mid-October unsettled me somewhat. I had apparently caught the eye of Miss Spurring, sister to one of my lecturers. When she approached me, it took me very little time to realize that not only were her eyes the wrong shade of blue, but that her hair was far too tidy and too light a shade of brown. And her nose was the wrong shape....

I was seemingly destined to spend a lot of the year with only my right hand for company.

+~+~+

In March of the following year, I and my fellow students found ourselves each having to submit a lengthy essay, the subject being the field we thought we might one day specialize in. I have to say that I dreaded such things; writing has never been my long suit, as I prefer the practical to the theoretical. Against the advice of my classmates, I chose as my topic the field of general practice, listing my reasons for wanting to enter it and my hopes for what I could one day achieve. I have to confess that I was greatly relieved when, before handing back the papers, Doctor Campbell-Menzies mentioned that no-one had failed the assignment. Though that relief was tempered somewhat when the doctor also asked me to stay behind afterwards, presumably to discuss my unusual choice of topic. 

“Every year except your last”, he explained, “we arrange with hospitals around England for our doctors to spend the last three weeks of Trinity term to go and observe. It gives you all a width of vision as to how different parts of the country deal with different problems, a width you can them come back and share with the rest of us.”

I nodded. I knew this already.

“We normally try and get each doctor somewhere vaguely close to their home town”, he went on, “but a prime posting has just come up, and as your essay was so..... well, different, I wondered if you might be interested.”

“Indeed I would”, I said heartily. “Where is it based?”

“It is the Cambridge University Medical Centre, responsible for all medical matters concerning the various colleges”, he said.

Cas, I thought at once. I shifted subtly forward to hide my body's other reaction from my professor.

“It sounds most intriguing”, I said quickly. “I would love to be considered.”

“Never mind considered, lad, you're going!” the professor chuckled. “That essay of yours showed a level of commitment to the public good that was absent from virtually all the others. You leave at the start of June, and will lodge at the Centre itself. Good luck.”

I thanked him and left, wondering at the twist of Fate that was again causing Cas' path and mine to cross. But it was only three weeks, and there were many colleges. I might very well not see him.

I privately determined that I would see him. One way or another.

Vertically or horizontally. I was not fussy.

+~+~+

I naturally apprised Cas of my visit, and was a little upset when he wrote back that this would be at the height of his annual examinations. However, he promised to write to me at the Centre once he had specific dates, and could arrange some time off to see me. It was frankly cruel of him to mention that he had a particularly high-quality bed in his rooms at Tarleton, and I determined to test that assertion out in every way I could.

Summer seemed to take longer than usual to arrive that year, but eventually I found myself boarding a train at Liverpool Street Station for the university city, and after a long journey through first the grime of London's eastern suburbs and then the much pleasanter Essex countryside, we pulled into Cambridge railway station. I took a cab as I had been instructed, and reached the medical centre shortly before tea. It was a pleasant, single-storey building, looking more like a squire's residence than a hospital. I was welcomed by a Doctor Patrick Wellons, a forty-something fair-headed alpha who spoke with the distinctive slow burr of the local area, and he took me to my lodgings, where I quickly settled in.

The first week passed uneventfully. I was deputized to follow various Centre doctors on their rounds, and the whole thing was fairly mundane, although it was impressed on me that I was in no way allowed to discuss what happened at one college anywhere else. Discretion, it was said time and again, was everything in this post (I was tempted to see if I could obtain a top with that slogan written on it, I heard it so often!). I was however enjoying the variety of challenges that arose, although both Cas and I were busy that first week, I knew he was free at the weekend.

Fate, of course, had other plans.

+~+~+

It was a Saturday and technically my day off, but unfortunately my hopes of slipping over to Tarleton had been scuppered by my own good nature. I had volunteered to stay on duty as one of the Centre's doctors was getting married shortly, and he and his friends wanted to travel down to London for the wedding preparations. I had not attended any cases on my own as yet, but presumably I must have impressed them sufficiently for them to accept my offer. I was promised a day off in lieu during the coming week, and as I knew Cas' examinations finished on the Thursday, I planned to make Friday memorable.

Vertically and horizontally. If not diagonally.

There was only one case that demanded our attention that day, a fevered student at Girton, and Fforbes, the other doctor on duty, went out to deal with it around seven o'clock. I remained at the Centre alone awaiting Fforbes' return upon which I would be able to leave. However, at half-past nine I received a message to the effect that that the presence of a doctor was required at Tarleton immediately, and that they had even sent a trap for me. Wondering at the reason for the urgency, I grabbed my bag and left. 

Tarleton lay on the outskirts of the town, and had, I knew, been founded when the owners of the great house of that name gave over part of their estate for a college some thirteen years prior (all right, I may have made inquiries about Cas' college). The trap went not to the college building, I noted, but to the Hall itself, and a footman was waiting anxiously for me, hurrying me inside with more speed than decorum. There I was greeted by the butler, who ushered me upstairs with equal speed. At the end of the corridor a heavy oaken door hung on a single hinge, clearly having been broken down, and it creaked ominously as I was almost pushed into the room behind it.

I found myself in what was clearly a study of some sort, and a heavy-coated man (whom I judged, it later turned out correctly, to be a policeman) was staring at me impatiently. My attention should have been more drawn to the two clearly dead bodies, one slumped in each of the fireside chairs, but was instead focussed on the familiar figure standing by the fireplace between them, staring at me in equal astonishment. 

It was Cas.

II

My sigma friend looked at me for some time, then managed something perilously approaching a smile. Our mutual confusion was ended only by a polite cough from the policeman. 

“Sergeant James Huntington, sir”, he said. “Sorry about the lack of uniform; I was off duty when the call came in.”

I broke away from those cerulean eyes and nodded to him, before turning my attentions towards the bodies of the two deceased. The man was about thirty years of age, sallow-skinned with light fair hair and a long nose. He was wearing a long dressing-gown over pyjamas. The lady had been younger, probably in her early twenties. She had light brown hair that flowed over her shoulders, and was wearing a powder-blue dress. I would have said she had been quite pretty, were it not for the look of sheer hatred that had disfigured her face in death. I looked across at Cas.

“Mr. Novak is a student here, and he had been helping us catch up on paperwork at the station”, Sergeant Huntington explained. “He has an interest in crime, so I thought his presence might be valuable.”

I nodded, and glanced at the clock on the table. Almost ten o'clock. 

“They have both been dead for not less than an hour, and not more than two”, I said confidently. “Unfortunately the presence of the fire makes it harder to give a narrower estimation, as it has helped slow the natural cooling process. I would say an hour and a quarter is most likely, but I cannot be more exact.”

The sergeant looked relieved.

“That fits very well, sir”, he said, looking down at his notepad. “The gentlemen downstairs heard the shots just after the clock chimed a quarter to nine.”

“The cause of death is painfully obvious”, I said. “Both were shot in the head, and they must both have died almost immediately. However, the man was shot at some distance, and the woman at close range.”

The sergeant looked away for some reason. I narrowed my eyes at him. What was he not telling me?

“The room has not been entered except by the two people here, sir”, he said slowly. The three gentlemen downstairs rushed up when they heard the shots, and there is no other exit from the room.”

I gestured towards a second door behind the lady's corpse.

“What about that?” I asked.

“It only leads to the connecting bedroom, and there is no way out from that except out onto a balcony or back into the outside corridor.”

“But this room has a balcony too”, I objected. “Could not the murderer have escaped that way?”

“The door has been locked on the inside, and there is no sign of forced entry sir”, the sergeant said. “Besides, it has been raining for the past two hours, yet there are no footprints or anything.”

I winced. I knew where this conversation was heading, and I did not like it. Suicide was one of the stranger taboos of Victorian society, and families unlucky enough to suffer one could expect what in my humble opinion was a lot of unfair opprobrium.

“What is that smell?” I asked, hoping to take my mind off the inevitable conclusion as to what lay before me.

“Lavender”, and it was Cas' familiar gravelled growl. “There is a scented candle on the table by the door.”

“I have to take witness statements from the four gentlemen who were here at the time”, the sergeant said. “This is very bad. Miss Bessborough was a lovely lady. I do not know what could have possessed her to do such a thing.”

“Are you sure she did?” Cas asked dryly.

The sergeant looked at him, puzzled.

“The facts seem to point that way, sir.”

The man seemed to think for a moment. I was quietly grateful for the potent lavender smell, which was currently weakening my fellow alpha's scent. Even with two dead bodies and a police sergeant in the room, I could feel certain very untimely urges.

“Mr. Winchester and I know each other from a prior meeting at Oxford”, Cas said eventually. “I think, sergeant, that if you would not mind, the two of us would like to sit in on your interviews. And we should definitely start with Doctor Green.”

“Why him?” the sergeant asked curiously.

“Because the badge he wears on his lapel indicates he is of the temperance movement”, Cas explained, “and therefore his recollection of events is likely to the the clearest of the four.”

“Oh”, the sergeant said. “Yes. As you wish, sir.”

He led the way out of the room, and I was about to follow when Cas caught at my sleeve. And I almost baulked. His scent, which I remembered from Oxford, was potent this close, and I leaned almost subconsciously towards him.

“I am glad it was you who came”, he said quietly. “If we can solve this matter this evening, my room-mate is away, staying with his family.”

He sauntered from the room, and I scrambled to follow him, having first to adjust my inexplicably tight trousers. I most definitely did not whimper.

I did not!

III

I could not help notice, as we waited for the servant to bring Doctor Green, how nervous the sergeant looked. Or how young for such a post.

“It seems”, he said, “that Miss Bessborough shot Mr. Ebenezer Holder, then turned the gun on herself. When I briefly questioned the four gentlemen earlier, each of them stated quite clearly that there were only two shots.”

“And the shot that killed Miss Bessborough does not strike you as at all odd?” Cas ventured.

The sergeant looked puzzled.

“How so?” he asked.

“Sergeant”, Cas said, “the bullet was almost perfectly front and centre to the lady's forehead. Surely someone committing suicide would more usually point the gun to the side of their head? Staring down the barrel of a gun seems an unnecessary strain.”

I could see from the young sergeant's expression that he had not thought of that, but further conversation was rendered impossible by the arrival of our first witness. Doctor Roger Green was a beta of about fifty years of age, and as Cas had surmised, his recollection of the events of the tragic evening was indeed precise.

“The four of us sat down to dinner at six”, he recalled, “and it lasted for just over an hour. “We finished about five minutes after seven; I remember dessert being cleared away just as the dining-room clock struck the hour; that clock is always a few minutes behind the one in the main room, which itself is kept to London time. We then all adjourned to the main room downstairs, except for Philip, Mary's brother. He went to his room to write some letters, and was there the whole evening. Poor man, he must be devastated.”

“And where is his room, sir?” the sergeant asked. 

“Four doors along from Ebenezer's, but the corridor between is open on one sides, and clearly visible from the main room downstairs”, the doctor said, looking hard at the policeman. “If he had gone to the room, he would have been seen by at least one of us.”

“Not if you were distracted”, I pointed out. 

He looked offended at such a suggestion.

“I was sat facing the opposite corridor”, he said, “but James and Geoffrey were both facing that way. If Philip had come out of his room, they would have seen him!”

He was clearly not to be moved on this point. The sergeant changed tack.

“Did you see anyone go into the room between seven and nine?” he pressed.

The doctor thought for a moment.

“I went up almost immediately – it must have been about ten past seven – to take Ebenezer some pills”, he recalled. “Don't look like that sergeant; it was for a mild nervous complaint, nothing that would have any bearing on the case. I dare say they are still in the room somewhere. You are perfectly at liberty to have them tested if you so wish.”

“Is that why he had the candle?” I asked. I knew some people found the scent of lavender restful, although in the murder room it had been a little overpowering.

“No. I believe that was a present from Miss Bessborough”, the doctor said. “They were all but engaged to be married, you know.”

Clearly the sergeant had not known that. The furrow on his brow deepened.

“James – Mr. Tarleton, who owns this house – went up to take him a drink at shortly after half past seven”, the doctor recalled. “James rather fancies himself when it comes to strange cocktails, I must say. When he came down, he said Ebenezer had asked that Geoffrey – Geoffrey March, the family lawyer – go up after eight to discuss a legal matter with him. He went up just after the main clock stopped chiming the hour, and was there for about twenty minutes. Mary arrived home at twenty minutes to nine o'clock – I looked at the clock as she came in, wondering if it was getting too late - and she went straight up to the room after bidding us good evening. It must have been only seconds after she entered that we heard her cry out, and there were two gunshots before we could move. We made it there as quickly as we could, but we were too late.”

“How long do you think it took you to reach the murder scene?” the sergeant asked.

The doctor thought for a moment.

“We were some distance from the staircase to start with. And then we found the door locked, and had to break it down. James and I went back to the alcove by the top of the stairs and found the old wooden bench there, so we used that. I would estimate it took us not much more than a minute and a half to break through, two at the absolute most.”

Sergeant Huntington caught up with his notes before asking another question.

“You said that Mr. Philip Bessborough was in his room at the time”, he said. “Why did he not reach the door first?”

The doctor blushed.

“I believe he was in the water closet adjoining his room, sir. It is what the French call an en suite.”

Cas uttered something that sounded suspiciously like a snigger, but when I looked across at him, his expression was blank.

“May I ask a question?” he ventured.

“Of course”, the sergeant said.

“When you yourself entered the room, did you notice any particular smell?”

The doctor frowned.

“Only that damned candle that reeks the place out!” he snorted. 

“It was not lit?” Cas asked.

“It lay on the floor by the door”, the doctor said. “We burst into the room somewhat precipitously, you understand, and the table just behind the door was upturned in the confusion. It may have been lit when we entered, but as I am sure you will understand, our minds were on other more important matters at the time.”

“And you are sure no-one entered the room apart from the people you stated?” the sergeant pressed.

“You must ask James and Geoffrey if they saw anything. I was mostly facing away, as I told you. May I be excused?”

“We would only ask that you wait until we have interviewed everyone involved with the case”, Cas said silkily. “Matters may arise from the recollections of other people, and I am sure you would not want a policeman calling at your house when you may be receiving patients. Particularly as this story will be all over the town by tomorrow.”

The doctor scowled at him, but nodded and left.

IV

Our next visitor was Mr. Philip Bessborough, brother to the female victim. He was in his mid-twenties, a small beta with a puzzled frown on his face, as if he could not quite believe the night's events. Somewhat to my surprise, Cas whispered something to the sergeant then almost fled the room before our visitor had sat down.

“Yes, I had a number of business letters to write”, he said, and I felt instinctively that he was holding something back. He looked far too nervous.

“I understand your sister was engaged to Mr. Holder?” the sergeant prompted.

“Not an official engagement as such”, the man admitted, “but there was definitely an Understanding between them. I thought they were very much in love....”

“'Were'?” the sergeant queried at once. “What do you know, Mr. Bessborough? I would have you know that withholding information is itself a very serious offence in the eyes of the law!”

The man looked pleadingly at me, then sighed heavily. 

“I suppose it will all come out now, anyway”, he said reluctantly. “Some years ago, Ebenezer had an affair with a...” he blushed before continuing, “a lady of the night during a visit to London. Last month she sent him a letter informing him that there had been a child, and that he was the father. He went down to see her, and when he came back he admitted that the boy was the spitting image of him.”

“Did your sister know about this?” I asked.

“No”, he admitted, “but I told him there could not be a marriage between himself and my sister unless he confessed all beforehand. I made him promise to tell her tonight. If only.....”

He put his head in his hands, making a visible effort not to break down. We waited for some moments for him to compose himself.

“Do you believe she was angered enough by the news to actually kill him?” the sergeant said, frowning at his notepad.

“May was all about family honour”, the man said sadly. “The Bessboroughs go back even further than the Tarletons, you know, right to the time of the great Elizabeth. And she always carried a small pistol with her, ever since she was attacked walking home from a party in London one time. I just never thought.....”

He broke down completely this time, and I looked at the sergeant, who nodded his agreement for me to take the man away. I escorted the shaking man to the main room and left him with the doctor, and Geoffrey March then accompanied me back to the interview room. He was in his mid-forties, balding and (I thought privately) far too self-confident for a potential murder suspect. We went into the room, and he sat opposite the sergeant. There was still no sign of Cas.

+~+~+

I was not at all surprised when the alpha lawyer invoked client confidentiality in refusing to discuss his conversation with Mr. Bessborough. He thought he had stayed with the man for closer to half an hour rather than twenty minutes – he had certainly descended before the clock struck the half-hour, leaving a clear fifteen minutes before Miss Bessborough's entering the room - but otherwise his recollections of the evening tallied perfectly with those of everyone else. He stated categorically that no-one apart from the three of them had entered the murdered man's room. It seemed that we were getting nowhere.

“He was the last man to see Mr. Holder alive”, the sergeant noted once he had left. “It really does look as if Miss Bessborough shot Mr. Holder, loath though I am to think such a thing in this day and age.”

“It may be worth investigating to see if he has been stealing money from the estate”, I mused. “Though how he could have committed the crime, given what we know, I simply cannot see.”

Cas returned to the room at that moment with our final witness, Mr. James Tarleton. He was a dark-haired man in his early thirties, not unlike the victim Mr. Holder, and looked every inch the nobleman. His account matched up perfectly with those of the other witnesses.

“I would like to ask one question, if I may”, Cas said politely, looking at the sergeant for permission. I thought to myself that this was a good side of him, as it was clear he could easily overawe the young policeman, but was working with him instead. The sergeant nodded his approval.

“You have stated that Mr. Holder's room had a set number of visitors that evening”, Cas began slowly, “and that either you or Mr. Tarleton were facing the open corridor at all times. You are absolutely certain no-one else went along that corridor?”

James Tarleton stared at him angrily.

“If you are trying to imply that Philip somehow slipped along it without us noticing, then you are wrong!” he said firmly. “Not only was that door solid oak, but it also creaked mightily every time someone went through it. Ebenezer kept it that way so he could always know if someone was coming.”

“You did not entertain any feelings for the lady yourself?” Cas said pointedly.

The nobleman blushed fiercely.

“I am a gentleman, Mr. Novak”, he said acidly. “Whatever their feelings, gentlemen do not poach the fiancées of other gentlemen, even if the engagement has not yet been formalized. It is Just Not Done!”

I smiled inwardly at his forthrightness, as the sergeant indicated that he could leave. 

“What about the stairs?” I ventured.

“What do you mean?” the sergeant asked.

“Well, I said, “the three men said that they went up the main staircase to reach the top corridor. The stairs turn halfway up, so there must have been a period of time, if only five or ten seconds, when they were not able to see the door. What if someone got in or out then?”

Cas smiled at me.

“A good point, doctor”, he said. “Unfortunately when I spoke to the housekeeper just now, she confirmed that one of the maids was serving drinks at the time of the shot, and remained downstairs with her eyes on the door the whole time.”

The sergeant visibly slumped his shoulders.

“This is bad”, he said heavily. “A suicide and a murder.”

“Not quite“, Cas said quietly. “Two murders, made to look like a suicide and a murder.”

The sergeant looked at him incredulously.

“How could you know that?” he demanded.

Cas looked at him thoughtfully.

“I sense that you are a decent man, sergeant”, he said slowly. “What Mr. Winchester and I” (I raised my eyebrows at this point) “are about to do is highly unethical, but will, if what I believe to be the truth is indeed what happened, enable you to prove that Miss Bessborough did not kill Mr. Holder, and that she did not subsequently take her own life.”

The sergeant looked at him in amazement.

“And you think....”

“It would be better if the representative of the law was otherwise engaged for the next half-hour or so”, Cas said gently. “I know you have men posted outside the house, just in case. The housekeeper is waiting for you downstairs, and it would only be natural for you to spend time interviewing the staff.” He smiled knowingly. “And her coffee cake is quite delicious!”

The sergeant nodded silently, and left the room without a word. Cas went to the door and summoned the butler, then returned to the centre of the room and extracted three things from his pocket. One I recognized as the scented candle from the murder room, the second was a plain white envelope, and the third a folded piece of paper.

“I do not see how anyone other than Miss Bessborough could have committed the murder”, I said plaintively. “Mr. Tarleton assured us that no-one else entered the room.”

“He lied about that”, Cas said brusquely. "Yet he did not know that he lied."

I was about to ask him how he could possibly know that when there was a knock at the door. Cas looked at me, and nodded slowly. 

“Enter!” he called out.

The door opened, and I fought hard to suppress a gasp at the man who entered.

V

It was Mr. Philip Bessborough.

Cas took a pen out of his pocket and laid it on the folded paper, before turning to our visitor.

“Mr. Bessborough”, he said, and his tone was suddenly much less amicable, “time is short. I have informed Sergeant Huntington that he will know the identity of the real murderer of your sister and her almost-fiancé before the evening is out.”

The man looked puzzled.

“But I thought....” he began.

“You will therefore do me the courtesy of signing this confession”, Cas interrupted, gesturing to the table. “Thirty minutes after you so do, it will be placed in the sergeant's hands. What you choose to do in that time is your own business, but as I am sure you have realized, the sergeant has men posted around the grounds. There are two ways out for you, sir. If you are a gentleman, you will choose the only honourable one.”

“Sir, I must protest!”

Cas sighed.

“Very well”, he said heavily. “I will tell you how you did it, and then why. First, you lied to us over Mr. Holder having fathered an illegitimate child in London some years ago. You were the one who did that, and Mr. Holder became aware of that fact. As well as making you persuade Mr. Tarleton to allow him to move in here, he used that knowledge as a lever to force you to accept his suit for your sister, despite the fact that you would have preferred her to make a much more prestigious match with Mr. Tarleton.”

“Sir!”

“You planned it well. You knew your sister always arrived back at the same time every Saturday from her meeting, and a few moments before she was due, you left your room and walked up the corridor, entering not Mr. Holder's room but the adjoining and connected bedroom.”

“But that is impossible!” I objected. “No-one was seen to go along that corridor between Mr. March's descent and Miss Bessborough's return.”

He turned to look at me, a glint of almost manic triumph in his blue eyes.

“When Mr. Tarleton insisted that no-one used that corridor between eight twenty and eight forty-five, he was not being strictly truthful”, the man said. “What he meant was no-one important used it. When during that time a maidservant came out of one of the rooms and entered another, it did not even register with the gentlemen downstairs. After all, who would spot a servant?”

Mr. Bessborough had gone a deathly shade of white. Cas turned to him.

“I have retrieved the maid's uniform which you appropriated”, he said crisply. “So what next? In the adjoining bedroom, you changed back into some regular clothes you had left there earlier, then waited for your sister's return. Once she was in the room, you burst in through the connecting door and shot Mr. Holder in the head. Your sister screamed, but you knew because of the layout of the house that it would take the gentlemen downstairs a clear minute to reach the door, and longer to break though it as you were about to lock it. You then killed your own flesh and blood, hence your sister's dying look of hatred.”

The man was shaking now. Cas went on remorselessly.

“By this time, I estimate, the gentlemen were trying the locked door”, he said. “This in itself was another point against your sister's guilt; why would she lock herself in when it would only delay the inevitable? You, meanwhile, had your escape lined up. The sergeant correctly noted that no-one came in by the window of Mr. Holder's room – but you simply went back into the bedroom you had just left, and exited through that window. The catch is easy to cause to fall shut when pulled from the outside; I tried it myself earlier whilst we were in the room. There is a footprint on that balcony which, I am sure, will match your boots.”

“You did one thing before leaving, which I must admit was a stroke of genius. You threw a handful of lavender stalks onto the fire.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because you wanted to drive home the idea that the room's balcony door played no part in the proceedings”, Cas explained, “and had it, then the smell would have quickly dissipated. You wished to totally rule out the possibility of any outside agent. Unfortunately that move was also your undoing. In this envelope I have a sample of the ashes from that fire. A scientific analysis will show that they include the remains of lavender, and I see from your own hands that a single grain of the plant remains lodged in your index finger-nail.”

The man looked down in horror, and let out a sob.

“So to finish”, Cas went on. “You returned via the balconies to your own room, then emerged, claiming you had been in the water closet. Doubtless later, once all the fuss had died down, you would have removed the spare maid's outfit from the house, and cleaned up around that room's window just in case.”

“His own sister!” I said, shocked to my very core.

“I talked with Mr. March earlier”, Cas said, “and he confirmed that Miss Bessborough was a full co-heiress to the estate. By eliminating her - especially before she could marry and beget an heir - he ensured that he would inherit everything, and by eliminating Mr. Holder, he ensured his own dark secret would never see the light of day.”

The man turned a piteous face towards us both.

“Have mercy!” he begged.

“It is for the sake of Miss Bessborough that I am offering you a way out”, Cas said, sounding almost angry. “Personally, I would like to see you swing for what you did. However, sign this confession, Winchester will witness it, and we will only hand it to the sergeant in twenty-five minutes' time. I am sure you still have the gun in your room, sir.”

The man nodded dumbly, reached for the pen and scrawled something almost illegible at the bottom of the paper. I countersigned, and watched as he lurched from the room, a broken man.

“Is it really right to let him out this way?” I asked tentatively.

Cas sighed.

“Without this”, he said, holding up the confession, “our case Is weak. Even if he was successfully prosecuted in a court of law, his lawyer would still besmirch his sister's name, claiming he was trying to protect her. No, my friend. As at Oxford, justice and the law do not always make good bedfellows.”

+~+~+

A few minutes later, there was a single shot from an upstairs bedroom....

VI

From the short time the carriage ride bringing me here had taken, I assumed it would be a twenty-minute walk back from the Hall to the Medical Centre, seeing as someone had dismissed the carriage during my time there. Cas asked me to walk back with him to his rooms, which were less than five minutes away. It was a warm summer night, so I agreed.

Our path took us past the stable-block, and I was surprised when Cas told me we could cut through it to reach his rooms.

“They keep their few horses in the college stables”, he explained, “and this is to be converted into new student accommodation and lecture-rooms. Unless some desperate thieves out there wish to steal some old hay, there is not much here worth taking. Except for one thing, of course.”

I looked around the empty stalls.

“What is that?” I asked curiously.

He turned, and the look on his face told me the answer even before he spoke.

“You!”

He was on me in an instant, walking me backwards into one of the stalls, where there was a large amount of straw piled up onto which I duly fell gracelessly. 

“A whole year, Winchester!” he growled. “Having to wait for you one whole year, and then today just one delay after another. I had planned this for tomorrow, but now is even better. Strip!”

I hastened to obey, but barely had my trousers off before he was naked and was back onto me. He all but ripped my underpants off, and went down on my cock like a dying man in search of salvation. I moaned in ecstasy, and was coming almost painfully just minutes later.

I may have temporarily blacked out, because I do not even remember him fingering me open, but when I fully regained my senses it was to find him leaning over me, fully sheathed inside me with both his hands on my shoulders. The Holy Church could say what it liked about such things; this felt so right....

Then he scooted forward, and the new angle made him hit my prostate. I moaned and managed to come a second time. Thank heavens that this stall had a whole load of fresh straw.

Wait a minute.....

+~+~+

“Your full-time course finishes next summer?” he said, those brilliant blue eyes shining next to me. I had debated as to whether or not to challenge him on as if he had planned this, but had decided that frankly I just did not care. I looked at him curiously.

“It does”, I said. “And I shall have the indubitable joy of trying to find employment, whilst still attending college.”

“You said that they had offered you the chance to return to Northumberland, and find a doctor's post there?”

I have to confess that I was surprised he remembered my home county, though perhaps the memory of Stamford's atrocious bagpipe-playing had something to do with that.

“I plan on staying in London”, I told him. “I sold the family house when I moved here, and Sammy has several more years to go at Edinburgh. The distance is damnably annoying, but the money makes up for it.”

The man looked at me almost hesitatingly, then surprised me by folding his hand into mine.

“I was wondering”, he said slowly, “if you might consider sharing lodgings with me. I know I am not the easiest person in the world to get along with, but you seem more able to tolerate me than most of my fellow humans. At least say you would consider it?”

I recovered myself.

“Yes”, I said with a smile. “I would definitely consider it.”

He rubbed himself up against me, and incredibly I found myself growing hard again. Surely not?

“Let me try to be a little more persuasive”, he whispered.

+~+~+

Oh boy, he was very persuasive!

+~+~+

Before we finally moved in together, Cas solved a case without even being there!


	4. Case 3: Wishful Thinking (1876)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously unpublished, mentioned elsewhere as the encounter with Doctor Moore Agar.

I

Wishful Thinking  
Keynsham Square  
London  
   
Sunday July 23rd, 1876  
   
Dear Castiel,  
   
Thank you for your recent letter, and your congratulations on my successful conclusion of the first half of my course. I will of course have to spend a further four years completing various papers for the college before I am officially granted the coveted title Doctor of Medicine (M.D.), but I am now in a position to do more work at the practice in Bloomsbury (the un-originally named Bloomsbury Practice!) where I have hitherto been working for one day a week, plus covering for absences. Unfortunately there are no vacancies for full-time staff there as yet, but they seem happy enough with my work thus far.  
   
As you will see from the above address, I have moved from my previous accommodation, which you may remember was near to King’s Cross Station. A little too near as things turned out; there was a fire in a neighbouring house caused by a stray cinder, and whilst I was not present, the house I was staying in sustained minor structural damage. Fortunately I have been exceptionally lucky to be housed at the family home of one my fellow students, a Mr. Preston Agar. His father is the famous Doctor Moore Agar, upon whom I was lucky enough to make a most favourable impression by timing my visit to his house to when his daughter Jane was giving birth! He was truly grateful that I was there to ease his third grandson into the world, and has agreed to put me up until I can find accommodation of my own, into which I am now looking. The child was named Hieronymous, but is healthy despite that.  
   
This brings me to the main point of this letter. Are you still interested in sharing rooms with me? I would be looking for something as near as possible to both Harley Street and the surgery in Bloomsbury, so somewhere in the vicinity of Tottenham Court Road would be admirable.  
   
I wish you luck at your own graduation this coming Monday, and my congratulations for having completed your course.  
   
Yours sincerely  
   
Dean

Postscriptum: The utterly risible name of the house was the choice of the late Mrs. Agar. One can only assume that her spouse did something very wrong whilst she was alive to merit such a bequest.  
   
+~+~+  
   
Tarleton College,  
Grantchester,  
Cambridge  
   
Friday July 28th, 1876  
   
Dear Dr. (?) Winchester,  
   
Thank you for your letter, Dean. I am sorry for the untimely delay in responding, but Mother descended unexpectedly on me, and insisted on taking me for a short holiday in Skegness of all places to celebrate my finishing my course. She is, as I have said before, a force of nature, and I usually find it easier just to give in to her demands. I arrived back yesterday evening and had a chance to peruse your letter, so my congratulations on your own achievements thus far.  
   
I would be delighted to take rooms with you. I plan to set up a business in London, but providing the house we eventually choose is moderately central, it could be anywhere. Your chosen location is certainly acceptable, and as you are in the area, I would suggest you continue your search. Regrettably I shall not be in the capital until the end of next month; Mother wants to visit some friends in the Borders, who are unaware of the maelstrom that is about to descend on them. For which they would have my sympathy, except I am to be dragged along with her on this impromptu Caledonian tour!  
   
I trust everything is well with your brother Samuel, of whom you often write so fondly. Once I have a definitive date for my arrival in the capital, I shall of course communicate it to you.  
   
Yours sincerely  
   
C. J. Novak Esquire  
   
+~+~+  
   
Tarleton College,  
Grantchester,  
Cambridge  
   
Monday July 31st, 1876  
   
Dear Dean,  
   
The graduation ceremony was today, and I do not think I have ever been more embarrassed in my entire life! Most students got to walk across the stage and accept their certificates with polite applause from the audience. Most. Only one had to suffer the mortification of his own mother whooping and cheering as if she were at one of those infernal football matches! I am so glad that I am leaving this place, never to return!  
   
I enclose a list of the three place that Mother plans to visit, and the approximate dates I shall be there. Unless, of course, someone warns the people that she is coming, and they decide to flee for their lives!  
   
Still blushing,  
   
C. J. Novak Esquire  
   
+~+~+  
   
Wishful Thinking  
Keynsham Square  
London  
   
Wednesday August 2nd, 1876  
   
Dear Castiel,  
   
Oh dear! Poor you, having to endure that at your very own graduation. I hope you are surviving the trip through the Far North. Technically speaking I am not supposed to call myself 'Doctor Winchester' until I get handed the scroll confirming my M.D, but the hospital has advised me that they generally 'turn a blind eye' to those who use the phrase earlier than they should, so a doctor am I!  
   
The house is building up to a major ball this Saturday, which is St. Oswald’s Day. I should have mentioned that Preston and I became friends because he too comes from Northumberland, though far into the south-west of the county, near Hexham. Doctor Moore Agar is a patriotic Northumbrian – he even flies the red-and-yellow flag in his back garden - and sometimes goes on at length about how the Scots stole the old northern part of our ancient English kingdom and made its largest city their capital, Edinburgh. Fortunately neither he nor any of his family play the pipes, Scottish or Northumberland!  
   
As well as Preston, who is visiting his grandmother in Brittany for a month, Doctor Agar has two other children, both of whom are home for the great day. His daughter Sophia is married with two children of her own, and she is pleasant enough. Both the children are under three, but I do not much like her husband, a Mr. Morgan Foliot. He is half-Welsh, half-French, and therefore doubly hates the English. And he has far too high an opinion of himself. The doctor’s eldest son Rupert is also here; he is one of those anaemic-looking blond boys (I probably should not call him that as he is nearly thirty!) who always seem totally bored with life. He spends most of his time with his books, and does not seem to actually do anything for a living.  
   
In a rather morbid act (in my humble opinion), Doctor Agar has commissioned a tree with various gifts for members of the household on it, in memory of the original Oswald who, it was said, has his various body parts hung in a tree after being defeated by the mighty King Penda at the battle of Oswestry (Oswald’s Tree) in six hundred and forty two. He mentioned his plans over dinner the other day, and I quite lost my appetite!  
   
Yours sincerely  
   
Dean

II

Wishful Thinking  
Keynsham Square  
London  
  
Sunday August 6th, 1876  
  
Dear Castiel,  
  
If the general post does what it is supposed to, this should reach your stop in Hawick on the same day you and your mother arrive. I do hope so, for the events of last night were quite shocking! They talk of history repeating itself, but…. well!  
  
The ball proceeded as planned up to eight o’clock, when Doctor Agar led the family out into the back garden for a moment of remembrance around the tree. I should have added that it was a very small gathering; a few close friends including the local parish priest, who had agreed to say a few words in memory of the battle. Except that when we got to the tree, we found there was rather more than the small present boxes on its branches. Sometime during the evening it had also, like its Marcher predecessor, acquired a dead body!  
  
Mrs. Foliot not unsurprisingly fainted at the unexpected addition, and everyone was swiftly moved indoors, Doctor Agar posting three servants to keep watch over the body until the police arrived. A Sergeant Belvedere came within the half-hour, and after the body had been hauled down, Doctor Agar and I examined him. His wallet revealed him to have been one Mr. Arthur Byland, but apart from the general clutter one might expect a young man to have in his possession, the only other thing of note was a small cameo brooch, which contained a drawing of a lady inside it. Not a professional one; possibly one the young man had done himself. It had the initials 'P.P.' in one corner.  
  
We estimated the time of death to be between six-thirty and seven-thirty, more probably closer to the former, which tallied with the servants having finished loading the presents onto the tree shortly after six. The cause of death was a single bullet to the heart; the man had been shot at extreme close range, possibly with the gun pressed into his body, which would also explain why nothing was heard. The whole affair was quite shocking. We have no idea why this man apparently came her to get killed and ended up like old Oswald, hanging from a tree! I am sure you can imagine the upset the event has caused to everyone.  
  
My search for lodgings continues, but no luck as yet.  
  
Yours sincerely  
  
Dean  
  
+~+~+  
  
Nonsuch House,  
Hawick,  
Roxburghshire  
  
Wednesday August 9th, 1876  
  
Dear Dean,  
  
Your last letter was most interesting, but left out several pertinent pieces of information. Please supply the following in your next one:  
  
1) How much money was in the dead man’s wallet?  
2) How did the man gain access to the garden?  
3) Did anyone leave the house between six and eight o’clock?  
4) How did the gentlemen of the house react to the discovery?  
5) Can you describe the state and quality of the dead man’s clothes?  
  
Of course the reason for his death is fairly obvious, but as to why he chose to die in that particular way is more troubling. I look forward to hearing from you shortly.  
  
It has rained for the past eight days. I am wet.  
  
Yours sincerely  
  
C. J. Novak Esquire  
  
+~+~+  
  
Wishful Thinking  
Keynsham Square  
London  
  
Friday August 11th, 1876  
  
Dear Castiel,  
  
I suppose that I should have foreseen your interest in this peculiar matter. I did not approach Sergeant Belvedere, who seemed poised to suspect me at one stage, but his replacement Constable Pilkington was much more amenable, especially after I told him of your successes in Oxford and Cambridge. I can answer your questions as follows:  
1) The wallet contained only one ten-shilling-note, and the coins in his pocket were six shillings, fourpence and three farthings. I thought it odd that all but four shillings was in pennies and smaller. There were also two bills, one for a clothier and one for laundry, totalling just under five shillings. There was also a receipt for a hat, of which there was no sign.  
2) There is an access path that runs along the backs of the houses on this side of the square, and a door in the back wall which is usually unlocked. Constable Pilkington assumes the man came through there, but as it is in fairly common use, there were no footprints. The path from the door to the tree is gravel, so again there were no prints to be had. So far no-one has come forward about seeing the man arrive, or anyone leave.  
3) Only one person definitely came into the garden during the times you specified. Doctor Agar came to check with his housekeeper that all was going to plan at exactly seven o’clock, but did not approach the tree. However, Mr. Rupert Agar’s statement included the fact that he was reading in the library between six-thirty and nearly eight o’clock, and there is a door out to the garden from there.  
4) Unfortunately I was taking more care of the body than observing reactions (apart from that of Mrs. Foliot, of course). However, I do recall that both Mr. Rupert Agar and the priest, the Reverend Gardener, both looked quite pale. The reverend smells slightly of gin, by the way.  
5) I do not understand the relevance of this question, but I thought his clothes were exceptionally shabby, with the exception of his shoes, which were of high quality. Possibly at one time he had a watch, as the loop where such items are normally attached was partly worn through, but there was none when we found him.  
  
One other odd thing has emerged from the police inquiries. The local stationmaster remembers a man answering Mr. Byland's description alighting from the train which arrived at just after six (the station is about a quarter of an hour's walk away). He is sure that the man was carrying a tattered brown briefcase or something similar, yet there was no sign of any such object in or around the tree, despite the constable searching the gardens for it.

So, who done it?  
  
Yours in anticipation  
  
Dean  
  
+~+~+  
  
Nonsuch House,  
Hawick,  
Roxburghshire  
  
Tuesday August 15th, 1876  
  
Dear Dean,  
  
We shall be moving onto our next stop in Gullane, East Lothian tomorrow. It has rained every day we have been in Scotland; I am surprised the country does not sink! I am still wet! And my breakfast plate the other day contained something dark and unpleasant that was very firmly pushed to one side! There are some horrors than even I am not prepared to face!  
  
I think that you should recommend to Constable Pilkington that he may find it interesting to take a look at the recent collapse of the Cornubian Bank. I believe that at least one member of your current household will be shown to have had an interest in that institution.  
  
Once we are in Gullane, I should have a definitive date for my arrival in London.

Mother is threatening to buy herself a kilt! God take me now!  
  
Yours sincerely  
  
C. J. Novak Esquire  


III

Wishful Thinking  
Keynsham Square  
London  
  
Tuesday August 15th, 1876  
  
Dear Castiel,  
  
I hope this either reaches you in Hawick, or is forwarded to you on the Lothian coast. A most interesting development in the case occurred last night. Doctor Moore Agar had what I can only describe as ‘a blazing row’ with his son and heir Rupert, their voices raised so loudly that we – myself, and Mr. And Mrs. Foliot - could hear them even from the next room. The boy shouted that he no longer needed his father’s support as he had recently done very well by getting his money out of an institution just moments before it collapsed. I assume he was referring to the recent and unhappy collapse of the Cornubian Bank, which has left many West Country investors ruined. It really was quite unseemly, the way in which he was gloating.  
  
This happened on Monday night, and there was a further development this morning, which caused me to have to start this letter anew. It seems that the boy may have forged his father’s name on his original investments into that institution, which is of course a criminal offence.  
  
I shall write again if anything else of import occurs.  
  
Yours  
  
Dean  
  
+~+~+  
  
Wishful Thinking  
Keynsham Square  
London  
  
Wednesday August 16th, 1876  
  
How the blazes did you know?  
  
+~+~+  
  
The Extra Hole  
Gullane  
East Lothian  
  
Saturday August 19th, 1876  
  
Dear Dean,  
  
Kindly advise Constable Pilkington to check all gloves belonging to Mr. Rupert Agar.  
  
I shall be in London next Saturday. If you would care to meet me off the train arriving to King’s Cross Station at shortly after six o’clock, we could discuss the case then.  
  
Yours sincerely  
  
C. J. Novak Esquire

Postscriptum: As at Tarleton, I have not actually seen you for a whole year. I look forward to our relationship becoming more stable.....  
  
+~+~+  
  
Wishful Thinking  
Keynsham Square  
London  
  
Monday August 21st, 1876  
  
Dear Castiel,  
  
Constable Pilkington arrested Mr. Rupert Agar today, the charge being the murder of the dead man, who turns out in fact to have been a Mr. Alan Selborne. Blood spatters were found on a pair of gloves that he had thrown to the back on his drawer, and he broke down and confessed all. His father has insisted that the moneys he made be returned to the bank so it can be shared between the ruined investors; it will be precious little given the extent of the collapse, but I suppose every bit helps.  
  
How on earth did you know? I cannot wait until Saturday!  
  
Yours in extreme impatience  
  
Dean

Postscriptum: Thank you for your postscriptum. In future, I shall not read your letters whilst anyone else is in the room! And I shall remember to wear looser clothing!  
  
+~+~+  
  
The Extra Hole  
Gullane  
East Lothian  
  
Wednesday August 23rd, 1876  
  
Dear Dean,  
  
You will have to. Wait and remember. Do note that looser clothing is often easier to remove quickly.  
  
Yours sincerely  
  
C. J. Novak Esquire

IV

Of course, it was just as I was about to set out for the station that the day's second post came, and there was another letter from Cas. I took it with me and waited until the cab had started off before reading it:

The Extra Hole  
Gullane  
East Lothian  
  
Wednesday August 23rd, 1876  
  
Dear Dean,  
  
I must say how I am looking forward to meeting you in London. I hope to be able to open you up to all sorts of new things, assuming that you can come with me. I visited an old police museum the other day, and was able to purchase a set of handcuffs from which extraction without the key is all but impossible. I am sure you could find some use for them in your line of work.

I have come to the conclusion, several times, that we need to set our transactions on a firm footing, as I know you are wary about 'unexpected surprises'. Though I am sure you will not take this lying down, I am sure I will be able to persuade you as to the benefits of our having close ties. One way or another.

Looking forward to a pleasant (train) ride.  
  
Yours sincerely  
  
C. J. Novak Esquire'

The rest of the cab-ride was somewhat uncomfortable....

+~+~+  
  
Of course it transpired that the Edinburgh train that day was delayed by half an hour, and I was positively champing at the bit when it finally pulled into the station. I fully expected to see Cas with his mother, but when I caught sight of the dark-haired young man alighting from the first-class carriage at the front of the train, he was alone. I hurried over to greet him, and we shook hands.  
  
“Mother wished to descend on some other hapless friends in Norfolk”, he explained, “hence she changed at Peterborough. Besides, I told her about us, and she thought you would rather greet me alone.”

I felt my heart sink.

“Your mother knows about us?” I parroted.

“Mother knows everything”, he said. “It is always better to tell her at once, rather than risk her finding out first. It was she who suggested the hotel.”

“What hotel?” I asked, confused. He grinned at me.

“I thought given how 'hard' it was for you to wait all this time, you would want a comfortable bed”, he said. “So I reserved a room at the Great Northern Hotel just over there for today and tonight. Of course, if you would rather go back to the house and discuss the case...”

I pouted.

“That is not fair!” I moaned. “You are giving me a choice between solving a riddle that has plagued me for weeks, and sex with you. And that last letter was downright mean!”

He moved closer, and I was enveloped in that heady scent.

“Is it really that much of a choice?” he growled.

Reader, it was not.

+~+~+

Room one hundred and thirty-seven of the King's Cross Hotel was lavishly furnished, with a main room that even had its own balcony. The place was spotlessly clean, and there was a bowl of fresh fruit on the table. Not that I had time to notice much more, for Cas was hustling me into the large bedroom, where a huge bed awaited. It was unfair how he was able to get out of his clothes so much faster than me, especially as he wore more layers (I had counted). 

I was barely on the bed before his finger was inside me, working to open me up. I groaned, and a second finger was added, followed swiftly by a third.

“Cas!” I groaned. “Get a move on!”

“You are a doctor, Winchester”, he reminded me, working away all the time he was speaking. You know that an alpha who has been denied coupling for any length of time always manages a larger than usual erection.”

In what remained of my mind, I knew that. I was about to say something when the fingers were gone, and I felt him start to push in.

Oh. My. God! It was the Tarleton Hall stables all over again, except that he seemed even bigger than I remembered. And the things it was doing to my prostate – well, no wonder the French call this 'the little death'. I had never felt so..... complete in my entire life, and if I died now, at least I would go with a smile (or a blissed-out expression) on my face.

And then the man started thrusting, and I all but passed out. Only his calloused hands rubbing on my chest kept me conscious, as we both raced towards orgasm. I was about to come when he suddenly grabbed the base of my cock, and I all but screamed.

“Not yet”, he insisted. 

“Cas!” I gasped. “For the love of God, let me come!”

I knew then how a bottle of champagne must feel just before it erupts after someone has shaken it. The pressure was agonizing, yet it was also weirdly blissful in that it took me to some higher plane of existence that I had never experienced before. I was so out of it that I did not even notice he had removed his hand until he was suddenly coming inside me, and I reacted by erupting like a demented fountain. He held me through it, until finally we both stopped. Then he pulled out and left me, returning with a wet cloth with which he wiped us both down.

“Wow!” I said hollowly, wishing the English language had something with which to better express how I felt.

“Wow indeed!” he said. “I think thirty minutes.”

“Thirty minutes for what?” I asked, puzzled.

“A nap”, he said, setting the alarm clock next to the bed before snuggling behind me. I thought about objecting to being the little spoon, but I knew I barely had the energy to move. “Then we can go again before we go down for dinner.”

He dozed off, leaving me suddenly very much awake.

Again?

V

The dining-room at the hotel was opulent, but I felt that everyone there must have known what we had done upstairs (and yes, it was twice!). I knew my clothes were crumpled, and my backside ached every time I shifted in my chair. Cas, typically, had his hair neat for once, and looked as if he had just stepped off the model runway. 

(I was never so grateful for the cushion that had mysteriously appeared on my chair).

After the meal our coffees arrived, and once we were alone he began.  
  
“The case hinged on the recent collapse of the Cornubian Bank”, he explained. “Even before our crossed letters, you mentioned that Mr. Rupert Agar had done well financially in recent times. Anyone who sold out of Cornubian shares, rather like those who did the same for the South Seas Company a century and a half back, would have done extremely well.”  
  
“But where did poor Mr. Selborne fit into this?” I asked.  
  
He downed his coffee, looked almost mournfully into the empty cup. Wondering how he could drink scalding hot liquid – my own cup was almost full still – I signed to the waitress for a further supply. That earned me a decidedly gummy smile from my alpha friend, which was incredibly cute....  
  
No. No mixing sex and romance. Not going to happen.  
  
He waited until the waitress had brought his new cup before continuing.  
  
“The key to making money from these things is to sell at the right moment”, he said. “I would conjecture that Mr. Selborne was in a position to know that information and, quite unwittingly, he communicated it to his friend Mr. Agar, who quite probably shared it with his own friends and planned a mass selling of shares on the same day at the exact same hour. The effect was, of course, to cause a run on the bank and to ruin the Cornubian, along with Mr. Selborne.”  
  
“I do not know how, but somehow he became aware of Mr. Rupert Agar’s perfidy. He quite probably threatened to confront the man’s father over the matter. There must have been proof of what the young buck had done, for otherwise, why go to the extent of murdering Mr. Selborne? It was one wealthy, well-connected man’s word against one ruined man. No, Mr. Selborne had some proof of the man’s perfidy – remember that he had a briefcase at the station, one that subsequently disappeared - and that, sadly, sealed his own doom.”  
  
“Mr. Rupert Agar probably agreed to confess his dealings to his father and to return what moneys he could, provided Mr. Selborne came to the house ‘to stand with him'. He admitted Mr. Selborne through the back garden, probably spinning some yarn that he did not want his disgrace to be witnessed by everyone. Of course once he had the man at the back of the garden he shot him; the sound of the gun was muffled because it was pressed against his victim. That in itself was indicative; it implied that the murder victim knew his killer well enough to allow him to stand close. Mr. Agar then hung the man on the tree, which from your description was easy as he was on the other side, out of sight of the servants at the house.”  
  
“But why did he hang the body in the tree?” I asked, curiously,. “Why not just try to dispose of it?”  
  
“The scene of the crime was against that”, Cas explained. “Remember, you yourself said that the passageway that runs along the back was well-used, and he could not move any further into the gardens without the risk that someone talking a walk from the house might have seen him. No, the false identity was his best chance.”  
  
“Constable Pilkington said that Mr. Selborne‘s landlady had received a note from him saying that he had to take a sudden trip to America, and would send for his things later”, I told him. “I suppose that you are right.”  
  
He looked most offended.  
  
“Of course I am!” he said firmly. “Which brings me to my other news. I think I may have found us some lodgings. Or rather, my father has, and from his description, they look quite suitable.”  
  
“Where are they?” I asked.  
  
“Montague Street, near Russell Square and the British Museum”, he said. “The landlady is a Mrs. MacAndrew; rather a dour Scotswoman, but a good cook, so I am told. It is just over a mile from your Harley Street, closer to your own practice, and the terms are quite reasonable. Mrs. MacAndrew says we can go there any time to take a look, and if we are satisfied, to move in when we wish. And I understand she is quite modern in her outlook on life.”  
  
It sounded good, and there was only the slightest feeling of wariness as I agreed to go with him to the place tomorrow. I was moving into my own place for the first time in my life, and I would be sharing with a man I barely knew (apart from the great sex!), and regarding whom my own emotions were as yet unclear. But all those problems lay ahead of me for now, and I could not wait to see what the new place would be like.

+~+~+

Our fourth case was all about... a fourth case!


End file.
